I miss my life and I'm sorry for those of you who are standing between that and my nostalgia for it. I'm writing this poem called "The Ship" right now and re-reading it, it inadvertently sounds like a critique of a blow job...I'm trying to decide whether or not I should write the unintended innuendo out of it or not--psychology says no, right? Yeah, I probably wont. It's definitely not a John Ashbery "I let a guy blow me once" sort of a thing, but it definitely has some blow job imagery. I'll give it to the readers and let them decide. Maybe all of my poems are about blow jobs to my readers (although you probably have to have readers to have readers). "Hi I'm Kyle. I'm a blow job poet." Enough.
I don't think I have anything strong enough to submit to Octopus this year. Shit, I'd like to have someone look at some of my stuff and tell me I wouldn't be embarrassed if I submitted some of it. Jeff, where are you? I have these ideas for things but they never materialize. Williams must have been right when he said, "No ideas but in things." I need to stop being so neurotic about my writing and just get comfortable with what comes out. No ideas but in things. My imagination is my savior.
I'm going to start writing a series of short poems. They will be in couplets, possibly tercets. That sounds tasty.
My sister is dating a cowboy who says he's not a cowboy because instead of riding horses to round up cows, he rides a four-wheeler. I've got news for everyone, cows are cows and boys are boys. Think about it dude.
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1 comment:
missing your life is a strange way of thinking since your life is always your life and the past is always adding up.
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